Poetry writes you well
Seasonally gifting shoelaces to tie,
Friendly,
The falsity of this twisted head.
In little pages poetry arrives
In lesser folds poetry folds
Into your youful towels.
Poetry gets scooped up
The smallest of your combs
Wipes off well in the pages
Where poetry rests.
How easy then, for poets
To become friends.
Now and then ,
between the finest unfolding of a day,
I meet the cat ;
In the shadow of the trees,
Flare of the sun,
Or the secretive parting of brown leaves.
Somewhere after succeeding a few fish bones
Then encumbered in the carcass of white soil
I find it absorbed in his self ,
With his heart ruminating
Like a bee.
Yet ,continually he scrapes his claws against the gulmohar tree
Pursuing the sun all day.
Now I see him,
Then it is lost somewhere.
In the softening evening sun, crimsoned he plays
Caressing his white paws
Fisting the night in tiny blobs
Then diffusing them all over this infinity.
I
my significance was in clouds
In living relics of human footsteps
My significance
Embodied wholly in newly harvested crops
In the peeping endless meadows by the throughway sides, and
In playgrounds.
My significance was in
today.
My significance was only
In blood bathed hecatombs.
II
Across the multitudinous ,
the sun comes out
Littering on walls
Of schools shut.
Littering on
earth scraping ploughs.
Littering on the runaway kid's
Blood draped school uniform.
III
Strange evening settles down.
Softening sun spreads over meadows
Alights in the backyard,
Piercing the parted leaves.
Only a lone crow sits
By the mourning house.
Scared to caw.
Lest ,the wailing mother wakes up
Who now sleeps,
fatigued in mourning
Over the son she just lost.
